What if This Storm Ends?
by avoidance-is-key
Summary: Cross-Posted from Ao3: A "what-if" fanfic where skekMal is exiled immediately after the Great Division, and without the corruption of the Dark Crystal or his fellow skeksis he ends up on a very different path. World-Building and Head-Canons abound!
1. My Way

Something went wrong.

skekMal remembers it like the flagging of a ship from its careful course, undoubtedly led astray by blinding lights and false pyres burning on the shore. And it all crashes, crumpling and tearing, the hull ripped to shreds in a matter of seconds as the cold waves consume him until it leaves him hollow.

Voices, someone is-no, someone _was_ singing, and there was shouting, screaming, something important… something he'd forgotten, a sickness curdling in his insides that yearned for… home.

Stumbling to his feet, he lists to the side, the ground brushing against his soles like razor wire. Everything is too loud, too bright, even his skin feels too tight, constricting him with an invisible fist as if he's been crammed inside an infinitesimally small space.

It's stifling.

No... it's _hollow_. skekMal raises a hand to his chest, feeling the sharp pin prick of his own claws, he digs deeper into the physical barrier that shouldn't be there.

Something touches him, a strong grip and scaly hands, blunt nails and a brush of softness at his elbow that leaves him recoiling, snarling in disgust, trying to form words that won't come.

He doesn't stop to consider, instead he stumbles away from it, that blur of colors with its blinding light, that incessant warmth beside him that radiates energy. It tries to soothe him, soft whispers against his ears and he can't stand it.

It grates at him just as it pulls ferociously and he squints his eyes, blinking away the blur like a newborn.

_urVa… urRu_… A beautiful voice whispers in his mind, a song that twists golden threads in his psyche trying to spin a tapestry that's forever incomplete. He brushes it away like a fly, sending it scattering as his hackles raise along with the feathers across his skin.

Dipping his head he tries to speak again, hot fury boiling up his insides when again the words don't come.

The urRu with it's soft edges and bright skin reaches for him once more. A deep voice like the stones of Thra leaves its throat and skekMal sees blinding red.

Without forethought, he stands to his full height, curving away from that choking concern, feeling the muscles tug along his spine and pull beneath his skin, thrumming with a new life he looms over the urRu and looks into its gentle eyes.

In the dark of its pupils, he sees himself, a monstrous and twisted silhouette.

With a furious shout he slashes down, twin wounds of red scouring its muzzle. Anything, he screams silently, anything to keep its misplaced comfort to itself, to keep its pity at bay.

skekMal screams, every nerve igniting like acid splashed across his face.

He curls away, all four hands coming up to try and rip it off, peel the sensation away, pry it from his very matter. His hands come away slick with blood, dripping red that stains his skin and spreads across his feathers, mingling with the rusty pigment that already stains them.

He can feel it now, a binding to the urRu that winds deep down into the pit of his fractured soul.

Self preservation stays his hungry hands, unwilling to feel such agony again he turns away with a frustrated whine. Retracing steps that are not his own but he remembers nonetheless, they are a vast echo in his memory, the path so ingrained it needs no reiteration.

With each step he feels stronger, curling his fingers he rolls his shoulders, testing out the new motion, feeling the bones creak and the flesh stretch.

Standing taller with each bit of space that brings him further and further away from that creature, the pain lessens and the bleeding slows. His tail lashing against the ground he relishes in the sensation and raises his head as he steps into theHall of Reflection.

The chamber is still lit, the power of all three brothers beaming straight down as one and refracting about the room in an endless dance.

He raises a hand as their brilliance rips across his corneas and filters through his fingers until he can see the bones within, dark rods and lines that shouldn't exist.

"You lied the crystal has not healed us, it has not purged our darkness- only ruined us!"

A voice cries, and skeMal faces it, an image of ethereal light and a branching crown briefly replaces the disappointing flesh of the other skeksis. A purple beast with four limbs and clenched fists as it tries to steady itself against one of the thousands of lesser crystals in the chamber.

_No_… skekMal shakes his head, trying to stave off the bristling sense of unease, he can't remember the name, what they're supposed to be, there's something missing and yet the name skekSo persists as if it's always been.

"Mother does not lie!" Raunip shouts, every bit the feisty creature that floats in skekMal's memories like wisps of candle flame. Standing beside his mother, the smaller creature steps forward, a challenge in his voice. "You have brought this upon yourselves!"

Raunip spits at skekSo's feet thrusting a finger to the dimly glowing crystal. "The crystal was never yours to meddle with and it has seen fit to punish you."

The skeksis lunges forward coming terribly short with limbs like anebriefawn, awkward and new he doesn't quite know his reach.

Augrha easily stops him, pulling a hissing Raunip behind her, she thrusts a hand out, equal parts holding skekSo up and keeping him back.

skekMal hears her words like a distant drone and he watches eighteen of his newly born brethren stumble into the dimming light of the suns. He recognizes them, knows their strange shapes in a way that makes him inexplicably upset, an emotion like sadness but tainted so dark it wavers into fury as if it has nowhere else to fall.

He watches as the soft urRu retreat, the gelfling and podlings scuttling in front of their saurian feet, all stinking of panic. It makes skekMal's breath come faster, the salty sweet tang of fear making his head swing to follow them as saliva gathers, slipping past his lips.

A hunger, a craving so powerful that makes his vision narrow and his ears ring until he can barely make out anything.

"-nothing else to be done."

"Wait for the next conjunction?" skekSo growls, swatting Augrha's hand away with a snarl. "Out of the question!"

Looking affronted the maker steps closer. "You must listen to Augrha, must fix this, so you may return home!"

A distant part of him knows that staying here is wrong, a voice, deep like urVa's, resonates in his head and rattles his bones. It pleas and it cries, an incessant drone that begs him to flee with it, to abandon all that makes him feel powerful, in control, force him away from all that corrupts him.

skekMal twists his beak into a snarl.

He eyes the retreating urRu in a new light, a darkening one that has his hands twitching with want but his toes curling in with a sickening nausea.

_Weak_.

He grabs the straggler that flees too close, flesh connecting with flesh, he knows the urRu's name like his own,urYa, Thra whispers in his ears as the creature struggles, panic swiftly overtaking its features.

He closes all four hands around its throat, feeling the thin flesh give way to strained muscle and finally bone that crunches and grinds. It spits and sputters, foam gathering on its lips as its eyes fill with tears and its muzzle darkens, a blueness like a great bruise spreading from its lips to its cheeks.

He takes no notice of skekYi's sudden collapse.

Warm and wet, saliva drips onto skekMal's forearms when the creature's frothing grows so virulent that its desperate attempts to inhale sound like the gurgle of afissimmerin the Black River.

"Unhand him!" A deep voice booms, words drawn out in a lengthy drawl that vibrates the very air.

The urRu in his grasp has gone limp but this new adversary, this new prey, is fresh and it scrabbles at his limbs, blunt nails carving red lines as its warm breath pleads in his ear.

skekMal relents his grasp just to grab the smaller urRu about its thin neck, claws digging in until its lifeblood flows and splatters hot against his skin.

He tosses it even as skekHak cries out for mercy.

The newborn creature cannot catch itself and goes tumbling limb over limb, straight down into the glowing depths of the hole beneath the Crystal, straight down into the inner sun.

skekYi crumbles into dust just as skekHak bursts into flames, both with parting, agonized screams, they die before they ever lived.

Horrified, the skeksis look on as the very fundamental law of their existence is upended, immortality unwritten in piles of ash.

A fear unlike any other runs through them, echoing to the urRu who have make their swift escape from the castle. skekMal feels that churning despair as his own and he looks to the Crystal, that confounded thing that's ruined them, doomed them.

It has only brought them misery.

skekMal lunges, grabbing up a star staff that lay discarded amongst the crystal shards, he brings it down upon the top of that shining cursed thing.

Augrha's screams rumble through every fiber of him as the Crystal cries out beneath the thunderous blow.

It breaks, a single shard arcing through the dying light before it disappears from sight, lost within a maze of lesser crystals and mirrors, down into the depths of the castle's caves.

Clutching her chest Augrha falls to her knees, a wail unlike any skekMal has heard before leaps from her mouth. Raunip tugs at her, pulling his mother out of sight, safe from the curved claws and gnashing teeth that seek untoward punishment.

And skekMal moves forward, spurred by some remnants of guilt, to see Mother Augrha in such agony, to watch the crystal as it bleeds from clear to purple, a darkness spreading like ink in water, it frightens him.

That fear, oh how it spurs on the anger in his chest, igniting his temper, like a raw nerve exposed to the air. Clenching his fists he licks the blood from his face, relishing the taste as much as he despises it.

The other Skeksis look on with gasps and cries, it seems their shock is short lived, shifting to cruelty and wicked intent as there desire to lay blame burns brighter than the Greater Sun.

"You imbecile, you repugnant cretin! What have you done?" skekTek lunges for skekMal but he easily dodges the smaller skeksis, a grace and speed to his step that is unparalleled.

"The Crystal, it's broken!" skekEkt cries, an arm thrown across their face as they taper off into a shrill cry.

"It's useless." skekMal snarls, "We were always destined to rot on this pathetic planet. " The words finally spill from his throat but he hates them, hates how they sound, how they grate against each other how they rumble in the air. He hates how he doesn't understand them.

"_You_." skekSo grabs him, a strength in the other skeksis grip that leaves skekMal twisting and thrashing to escape. "You were always the worst of us, the darkest, leading us astray with your madness. And now-" skekSo punctuates his words with a tightened grip, "you've doomed us all."

Then so be it! Is what he nearly croaks, as skekSo heaves him into the air but the words settle like ash on his tongue, dry and wrong, holding no more weight than the lightest feather.

He's thrown on to his back, skidding and rolling across the ground until he's littered with cuts from the fine crystal edges. Levering himself up with shaky arms, he crouches on all fours, his other limbs outstretched, talons curved towards the ground.

He can still feel where the blood gathers at his fingertips, cooling streams that congregate and drip to the ground with the softest of patters.

skekSo doesn't approach, instead he looks down his toothy beak at him, as if he is just a lowly fizzgig, mad and rabid with sickness. The others gather behind him, looking down at him just the same, until the whites of their eyes become too much to bear.

"To fail ourselves is to fail each other. And you have failed us time and time again." skekSo hisses, a finality to it like the falling of a star, like the realization that it will never know the vastness of the cosmos again.

They are words skekMal has heard before, from a different place, a different time; where speech did not require tongues and lips, but thoughts and songs of the soul.

skekMal curls in on himself, forearms tucked across his chest as he ducks his head, he cowers like a lowly crawlie, utterly unlike the great being he feels he is meant to be.

This anger, this rage, it's all he has left to hold on to, like it's home, but even so, blood does not stain his brothers' plumage or decorate their skin like war paint.

"You are _not_ skeksis." skekSo's words fall upon him, hammering against his chest like physical blows.

With judgement cast and the hammer of exile fallen upon his neck, skekMal tosses his head and lashes his tail. No, he thinks, he has become cruel thoughts trapped beneath crueler flesh, with no chance of escape.

If this is what it means to be skeksis he wants no part of it.

Mal's mind quiets with the revelation and without a second thought he turns tail and runs.


	2. The Healer

Approximately 112 trine later

Mal falls heavily against the ground, his loud grunt echoed through the night like the stamping of a landstrider.

Sami Thicket is quiet, the three sisters high in the starry sky as the _croona_ sing their nightly tune and the glowing _fyrna_ flit about the tall grass.

For a moment he presses himself low, belly brushing the dirt as he forces a palm against his aching chest.

Warmth spreads across his hand and he presses harder, grimacing when it burns something fierce.

The Archer must think him a masochist, Mal muses darkly, but the Mystic is as high as the three suns about now, judging from the floaty sensation just behind his eyes.

His careful gaze flits from house to house, lingering on the ones where the tell tale glow of a hearth burns.

One in particular grabs his attention, an herb garden surrounds the entire abode and _fyrna_ seem to congregate around it, as if drawn to the energy that the place exudes.

The circular window holds no light but that certainly means very little considering who dwells there.

Slinking forward he enters the village, passing through the market and its empty stalls, being careful to taste the air as he creeps about, a shadow in the night.

Already he can feel his fingers going numb, a fuzziness leeching to his limbs as he approaches exsanguination. He approaches his target's home, nearly trampling through the beloved garden, but he's careful to catch himself, hopping over it with a clumsy leap lest he face her wrath again.

He knocks over a few pots, sending them clattering to the ground, all of them breaking with a crash as the _fyrna_ scatter in panic. Their clicks and chirps fill his ears and he swats the pests away, sputtering when they try and cling to the spikes on his brows and crowd to close to his eyes.

"Still louder than a _z'nid_ bird and twice as stupid, I see." Sylen's voice cuts through the fog in his head, quick and whip-like, she never seems to sound any older even as her hair greys and her skin wrinkles.

Feeling a sharp tug on his tail he turns, having to brace two hands against the sturdy stone walls of her home. His world spins out of control and he lists to the side.

"In, in." The stout gelfling ushers him through the door, tugging at his hand with a strength that belies her stature. "Come on you big feathery brute, I'm not as strong as I used to be."

Ducking, he follows her, the familiar scent of sedge flower and dried _huyka_ bark hits him immediately, it's as pungent as always and makes his beak crinkle without fail. Hunching awkwardly, he lets her usher him to a sturdy table near the back of the room, where the ceiling arches high enough for him to stand.

It's the very same table he's nearly died on many a time.

It seems he's doomed to repeat history.

"Lucky for you-" She calls over her shoulder, moving to the brimming and cramped shelves, stoking thefyrnalamps into life as she passes them, "-this old gelfling can't drag you about by the tail anymore."

Mal gives a pained huff in reply, but he can't manage more than to lay back and stare at the ceiling, going nearly cross-eyed as the bushels and baskets above start to double and sway.

Closing his eyes, he listens to the comforting scrape of stone on stone, Sylen no doubt mixing a salve, crushing it in the mortar.

"You can't keep showing up here." Her voice is closer now and he can smell her, a scent like dry grass swaying beneath the suns fills his nose. He didn't realize he'd missed it and he'd be damned if he ever admitted it.

"I know, _healer_." He growls, words heavy with pain and a considerable tinge of anger. It seems he hasn't quite burnt his rage out on those _rakkida_ because there it simmers, a tight ball in his gut, and he has to focus on stamping it out like an ember in dry grass.

"Mind your tone with me, _childling_."

Mal swipes at her head, a half hearted thing that misses by far too much, and he lets his hand lay limp, palm up on the packed earth.

"You're still so young in so many ways." She tuts, setting the mortar and pestle aside.

He feels her rough hands scoop up his own, placing the limb back at his side with a gentle pat to the back of his palm. It's a tender gesture, one that he's gone so long without that to have it back is something that he craves even more than the taste of blood on his tongue.

His fingers twitch, so starved for contact that they move of their own accord, clenching his jaw he reigns the urge in, burying it as he often buries his anger.

But Sylen notices, she always does, her eyes keener than a Grottan's and her mind sharper than a Sifan's.

"_Mal_…" She sighs, saying his name with the air of a disappointed caregiver. "You shouldn't do this to yourself."

She lays her rough hand against his cheek, thumb brushing the feathers below his eye, gentle and paternal.

"I won't always be here, you know."

"You? _Die_?" Mal gives a breathy laugh, swatting her hand away, he tries to turn on his side, curving away as much as he can from such gentleness. He looks at the wall and mutters. "You'll be older than Mother Augrha one of these days."

Sylen places a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to turn back to face her. Tense, he lets his back and arms settle against the tabletop once more, the rough grain digging in with it's splintery teeth. Still, it's nothing compared to the fire lancing across his chest.

He avoids her gaze, he avoids looking at the feathers woven into her white hair, he avoids that pity on her lips and a nausea builds in his stomach, twisting his midriff until he itches to race out the door. He'd risk death just to sink his teeth into something.

With a reverent gentleness, Sylen's hands flutter over his bandages, stained nearly black with blood, she mutters a familiar phrase, words Mal still can't understand but it lessens the pain.

Drawing her hand away, the healer tsks, dipping a bone needle into the _huyka_ paste at her side. The ivory glistens green and slippery, a thread of tanned _mounder_ gut at its end dances about when she sets it aside.

"My part of the song will end one day, just as yours will." Sylen affirms, her voice much softer than he's used to.

Ignoring her, Mal continues to stare at the ceiling. He knows what she speaks is a lie, there is no song for him, but he can't remember how to say it, it's tarnished and old, faded like dyed cloth left in the suns.

She continues to ready her supplies, shuffling things about before she stops, a silence stretching for a moment before she fills it.

"You're lucky you weren't spotted. Not everyone remembers you so fondly, least of all the Lords."

Phantom pain spreads down his back like icy claws and haunting laughs.

He remembers too well. It was a fool's plan, born of unchecked feral desire, a long festered regret and a cold rage.

All because Elder Carn had struck a deal with the skeksis and Mal knew; he knew that the Emperor was walking the gelfling into a trap, eternal servitude in exchange for false promises of protection.

Head bowed and back bent, he too would be subjugated and while he found it nearly impossible to feel even a farce of compassion for the gelfling, he felt anger, he felt fear. And it trapped him, cornered him until he headed for the castle doors.

But he was young, and stupid, still so new to the world, and the skeksis were quick, cruel and above all, they were cunning.

It was how he'd received his first punishment. The deep gouges still mar his back like jagged valleys, the Ritual Master's talons leaving gaps in his feathers where the follicles were ripped straight from the skin.

They threw him out, with a warning and a promise, skexish carved deep into his skin.

"I'd like to see those pathetic spitheads try-" He cuts off into an undignified yelp as Sylen rips the crudely placed bandages away.

Trying not to writhe or lash out, Mal bares his teeth and lets out a hissed curse between them.

The bite mark is worse than he remembers.

It's a mauling that punctures his skin, leaving it ragged and torn until the white of his bone is revealed, smarting as the last of the dirty wrappings are lifted away.

Sylen eyes the rags, noting the grime that seems to permeate the very threading.

"I see you've been hanging about the podling village."

"Good at brewing… Not so good at healing." Mal breaths, tensing up as Sylen upends a bowl of cold water across the lesions. "Been having trouble with _rakkida_, again."

"Of course, by _yesmit_, you can't resist a hunt."

Sylen rolls her eyes with a huff but, there's a quiet resignation there, almost a relief.

He wants to sneer, be crude and ask her _what of it? _He hunts because he has to, just as she heals because she has to.

Already he feels his skin start to prick and his teeth start to ache. His thoughts turn bitter, and when he closes his eyes all he sees is the Castle of the Crystal on the horizon, a dark twisting pyre that breaks the landscape.

The _rakkida_ would not be so rampant if not for that damn castle and its occupants.

_Fucking fools_ Mal curses in skexish, the only phrase he happens to know with any ounce of confidence. "Cooped up in their pathetic castle, all vain and so damned petty, the lot of-"

He cuts off with a sharp hiss, the needle driven into his skin, Sylen's timing is impeccable as always.

"Watch your language." She swats the side of his beak. "They're still the lords, whether they command my utmost loyalty or not, they protect the crystal."

Guilt settles like smoke, snuffing out the flames, and Mal is left to stare quietly at the ceiling.

She tugs the thread through, pulling the wound's edges together, thehuykapaste numbing its sharp path.

With each pass she whispers ancient words, sacred and strong to weave Thra itself into his skin and speed along the healing.

"I owe them my gratitude, for the food on my table and the medicine in my stores." She ties off the stitch, snipping it swiftly before moving on to the next one, mechanical and efficient with hands that have done this a thousand times before.

"Without them-" Sylen pauses, taking care to look Mal in the eyes, "-_you'd_ be dead."

He grumbles, discontent with her sentiment, but even he's not stubborn enough to deny the truth in her words.

By the time Sylen finishes wrapping great swathes of bandage about his chest, the first sun's rays filter through the window, dim and rosy, they light up the room and cast great shadows against the floor.

Blinking against the light, he shuffles off the table, huffing as the motion jars him and he's forced to curl in on himself.

"Stay." Sylen insists, hand at his elbow, silently urging him to sit back down.

He huffs, pulling the limb away. Already he feels more focused, energized despite the lingering pain and that fuzziness has all but lifted. Coherency brings thoughts trickling in like poorly damned streams. Violent things like the pop of bone from socket and the wet crunch of muscle between teeth.

The violence morphs and shifts, oil in water, it is slick and dark across his mind, coiling about his brain until it chokes the dredges of empathy from him.

He can't stay here.

Pushing past Sylen, he makes for the door, feet catching clumsily on the furniture as he hastens his steps, as if he can outpace his own shadow, that dark part of him that looks at the healer and sees just another meal.

The door bursts open and Mal leaps back, crouching on all four, he arches his back, hissing lowly at the offending object.

It slams against the opposing wall, a bang and a crash, hinges creaking under the stress as a young gelfling rushes in, cheeks flushed and breath frantic.

"Healer Sylen! Healer Sylen!" For a moment the wide eyed creature looks about, eyes roving the shop and the whites flashing. "The Lords have-"

And the Spriton spots him, color draining from its face, ears twisting back, and eyes locking with his own.

"Thats- _that's_\--" The young gelfling dissolves into stutters, stepping back it draws the shears from its belt, lofting them like a sword.

Mal crouches lower, baring his teeth like a cornered _fizzgig_, all he can focus on is the glint of silver in its hand and the blood he hears pounding in its veins.

He hasn't eaten gelfling in so, so long.

And there's no sentiment or peace of mind to stop him, his sanity crumbling to blood thirst, hunger and pain, exhaustion and weakness craving the taste.

Salivating like a hungry beast he prepares to pounce on the little creature a small part of him screaming and thrashing, mind still addled by injury and fatigue there is no stopping this hunt.

Sylen storms over, grabbing the gelfling by the wrist, trying to pull him further inside. "Can't you see that my door is shut?"

The healer's silhouette crosses into his vision, like a cloud blocking out the suns it leaves Mal abruptly snapped out of his stalk.

Sitting back on his haunches he keeps his back bent and his head low, sniffing at the air he's overwhelmed by that perfume stench of skeksis on the gelfling's clothes.

"Sylen." The gelfling hisses, a low thing that it probably thinks Mal can't hear or perhaps it doesn't care. It keeps its eyes trained on him, whites flashing like a frightened landstrider. "That's- that's the Trai-"

"The Traitor? The Outcast?" Sylen cuts off the stuttering, her words quick and clipped. "Yes, yes, so many flattering names, now come sit down before the whole of Sami Thicket hears you!"

The gelfling backs away, shaking its head, its ears bounce with the frantic movements. "I… I must tell Maudra Creyla."

Sylen moves to close the door, Mal stepping in line behind her but the frightened Spriton trips backwards with a shout, blocking the doorway.

Lunging, Mal moves to scoop the creature up, knowing Sylen's livelihood depends on it staying put.

"Stay back, beast!" The gelfling screams, scrabbling backwards it throws the shears in its grasp and beats a hasty retreat, fleeing into the safety of the rising suns.

The round handles bounce off Mal's snout. It forces a sharp roar of surprise from him and by the time he recovers the door is being shut by Sylen. The young gelfling is long gone.

"Thrice damn that childling and his blind rush to fealty." Sylen sags against the door, a hand comes up and twists the braid in her hair as she pushes off the wood.

Crossing and uncrossing her arms she moves about in a huff, stacking up bowls and clearing up the bloody rags scattered about.

Mal watches her, sharp eyes tracking the tense line of her shoulders and the slight pout of her lips. She keeps her back to him but her hand, it keeps twisting that braid, toying with the feathers there, all varying shades of rust and copper.

Similar feathers lay scattered on the table, little wisps and downy that follow Mal everywhere he goes.

Sylen reaches out, picking up a particularly long one, she twirls the shaft between two fingers, watching as it dances like a flame in the golden sun.

Swiping the back of a hand across his face, Mal stands, not realizing he'd sat back on his haunches to watch her.

He can't be here when the whole of the guard descends upon her home, they'd arrest her if the evidence he left behind wasn't already incriminating enough.

Forced to lumber about on three limbs, he stumbles to the window, peering through the wooden slats.

He can't make out much with the glare, but he can hear the sharp notes of skexish on the wind. It bites at his ankles and eats at his chest, his back tightens and crawls like a thousand ants beneath his skin.

Gritting his teeth, he moves to the door, heavy breaths punctuated by a pathetic whine. He grabs for the handle.

"Sit down."

Turning on the healer he snarls. "You don't order me, _witch_."

"Foolish childling." She meets his fury head on. "You cannot spend your whole life running. The pains of the past will only grow unbearable the longer you stay frightened of them, like a _nurloc_ hiding from the light."

"You've no idea what I've _done_." Mal heaves a wicked laugh. "Who I _am."_ He spits, abandoning his escape he stalks towards the healer, so determined, so brave, she faces him down with fiery eyes.

He looms over her, his hands coming up to curl at his sides, one unfurling to flash his talons in her face, feathers rippling down his spine, his vision fills with red and swirls of purple haunt the edges. "What do you know of pain-- of mercy, _stupid gelfling_?"

She relents, her determination trading for rapid backpedals, instinctual steps taken to avoid a predator, glass jars rattling like angry insects when her back hits the shelves.

"More than you could imagine." Her voice is shaky, her hands even more so but she reaches for him, impossibly delicate fingers, worn and weathered by time. They brush his forearm, tracing the thin cloth and leather bracers.

He turns with a snort, flinching back from her hand.

Mal snarls, shuffling his way to the door, swatting baskets and plants out of his way and knocking some to the floor, but he hesitates, lingering at the threshold, caught between two worlds.

"I'm an old crone." The words spill from Sylen's mouth, unfathomable in their depth. "I was there the day the Conqueror came, I was there during the Makrak raids and I was there when my childling died. A small price to pay, the Skeksis said…"

Sylen's voice grows soft. "That I was lucky to still have my life."

He can hear her footsteps draw closer, turning his head he watches her approach, slow and careful, measured steps and measured breaths. "But luck doesn't let a childing die in their caregiver's arms."

Mal hunches in on himself the words curdling his insides, discomfort making him shiver.

Sylen steps up beside him, so much shorter and yet Mal feels so small hunched beside the healer. He can't meet her eyes but her small hand gripping his fingers is enough.

"It won't just be my neck under the knife." He mutters, staring at the ground, tail twitching in the dirt.

Sylen nods, her jaw set as she grabs the door handle, tugging it open with a small huff, light spills in and shadowy figures blot out the suns like statues.

A phantom frown tugs at Mal's lips and he pulls his hand away, the grip starting to feel oppressive and heavy, wrong, as if his arm was turning to metal under her touch.

He can still run, he thinks, a flavor of panic creeping in that makes him look to the open plains, freedom incarnate in the green grass and blue sky.

Before he can slink away, gelfling surround them, lance tips thrust in his face as the noisy armor of the Castle Guard clinks and clanks like a horrid symphony.

A smattering of Spriton guards in their brown leather take up ranks with bows drawn and arrows notched.

"Not another step."

Crouching low, he throws his secondary arms out to the side, other hands going for the crude knives on his belt. Quick slashes across his knuckles leave him disarmed and so he falls back on tooth and claw, snarling and spitting as froth gathers on his lips and drips from his beak.

The guard only closes rank and he can see Sylen, for as delicate as she appears, trying to push past the bodies into the circle, her hoarse shouts falling on deaf ears when two gelfling grip her shoulders, yanking her away.

It makes him scrape great furrows through the dirt, toss his head and lash his tail, what he wouldn't give to crunch their pathetic skulls.

"Halt, beast." An authoritative voice orders. "Or you'll be killed where you stand."

He offers only a wordless snarl in return, keeping his defensive stance he steps towards Maudra Creyla, hiding just beyond the line of soldiers, safe from his scorn. The lance points cut his flesh anew, slicing right through his threadbare clothing and fresh bandages but the line does not falter.

Scoffing, Maudra Creyla shakes her head. "I should've known you were harboring this fugitive."

The Spriton Maudra swings her head towards Sylen, looking down her nose at the healer. "Your bleeding heart will send you to Thra one of these days."

"There is no fugitive if there is no crime." Sylen counters, struggling briefly against her captors before she's forced to give up in favor of catching her breath.

"Oh, but there is." skekGra walks onto the scene with all the careful grace one can muster when dressed in shining, regal armor, dark crimson plates like jagged wounds clanking softly with a dark helmet curving like teeth against the sky.

The skeksis motions to the guard to stand down, and with a touch of hesitation they do, drawing back their weapons they leave Mal to his own devices, wary eyes cast on him like nets.

But there is no running, not from the Conqueror.

Mal studies the skeksis, his voice is that same crazed drawl, but his eyes, the way he holds himself, the madness in his pupils seems far too controlled, contained, a restraint that hadn't been there trine ago.

It's as if the hungry orange flame that burns bright in skekGra's mind has finally been tamed.

_You've been causing trouble again_.

Skexish leaves the Conqueror's lips, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, as a sneer crawls its way across his painted beak.

Mal blinks, shifting his feet and opening his mouth, he glances to the castle guards, searching for a hint, a clue, but all of them stay quiet, eyes trained on the Lord of the Crystal.

He defers, trading speaking for silence, he meets the Conqueror's gaze and waits.

skekGra's gaze flickers over his body, scrutinizing him before he delivers a pointed look followed by a roll of his eyes. More words, leave his mouth, this time muttered darkly. And you're still as ill-mannered and dirty as ever.

Those orange eyes stay locked on him, they make Mal's skin itch and his feathers raise, agitation sending great shivers down his spine until he's forced to speak lest he lose his temper.

_I stay from Castle, you order_.

His skexish is rough, too long spent in the wilds had scrubbed the language from his tongue, and he'd always hated how it felt, how it tasted.

Mal braces himself for the jeers, the incessant cackling that starts up when he attempts to speak his mother tongue.

However, there is no room for mirth on the Conqueror's face today. Where normally the cruel skeksis would break down into incessant cackles at Mal's fumbling words, skekGra stands, hand on the hilt of his sword, and something like pity across his brow.

"How disappointing, even podlings are more accomplished at speaking than you." The deep reverberating voice of skekZok cuts across Sami Thicket like a whip.

It instantly sets Mal on edge, his hands itching to pick up his knives, lest he be unarmed in the same vicinity as that sadist. He can only be thankful that they've switched to speaking in gelfling.

"Hmm." The Chamberlain's telltale whimper follows not a heartbeat later and Mal watches as the two sidle up next to The Conqueror.

Dressed in fancy robes, ornaments and shiny baubles, the two look as vain and pompous as ever, excess dripping off of them in each bead and jewel.

"Still fumbling with words like childling, I see." Chamberlain hums, swinging his head towards the Ritual Master, the self-serving snake always hunting for approval.

"I've kept away from the castle, as you ordered, my Lords." He repeats himself, with a small bow at the end that leaves fire coursing through his veins but he steadies himself, catching the spark before it can drop into the oil.

"Hmmm, not what Castle Guard says." skekSil steps forward, his iridescent feathers flashing violet in the sun. "Say you've been stalking patrols, killing Landstriders, injuringgelfling." He stresses the last word with a slight hiss, but the Chamberlain composes himself, standing taller to deliver his next sentence. "Guard says you killed Captain Savan."

"I haven't killed any gelfling, my Lord." Mal's words trail off into a growl as skekSil cuts in.

"But you have in past, _no?"_

Mal looks to Sylen then, the healer standing silent and resolute, no longer restrained she's held in place by demands of obedience.

She watches him, eyes pleading and mouth moving, silent words on silent wind, she knows who he was, who he is, a hunter. And gelfling were always his first prey.

"No outright denial then, hm?" The Chamberlain pushes. "You are killer, _always_ have been. You cannot change your nature, only hide it."

"I'm no more a killer than you lot." He straightens his back, accusatory finger thrust towards the Chamberlain.

Undeterred the silver tongued skeksis draws closer, circling Mal.

"Hmmm, and what of blood on feathers? Flesh under claws and between teeth? Pink like gelfling blood." skekSil's voice cracks, dropping an octave into a throaty growl.

The Chamberlain grabs up Mal's hand, forcing the palm into the sky, for every Spriton gathered to see the damning evidence.

Gasps and cries fill the air, a rippling chorus that spreads from the epicenter and leaves harsh whispers and calls for justice in its wake.

"_Rakkida_ blood, any creature worth their vliya can see that." Sylen challenges but Maudra Creyla motions for the older gelfling to stand down.

"Watch your tone, gelfling." skekGra warns, voice grave and rough but he makes no command, no order to have Sylen punished aside from a stern glare.

"We bring evidence of the Outcast's transgressions. He is not so innocent and you would be wise to stand down, lest you be tried for treason on his behalf."

skekGra pulls a gelfling up from its place hidden behind him, the plates of armor clanking as he pushes it before him.

Mal steps back, the smell of fresh blood slamming into him as he watches the battered creature get to his feet. There is a twisting desire, bending and breaking behind his eyes but he holds it back, like gripping the reigns of a wild _daeydoim_.

It's a castle Guard, beaten and bloody, claw marks that Mal knows too well to be by Skeksis hand slash great wounds in his leather armor and down his cheeks.

"Well go on, tell them!" skekGra cries, swinging from regally composed to crazed impatience like an inexplicable pendulum.

The castle guard looks close to tears, he's so young, almost certainly a gelfling who's just come of age.

It tugs at some half dead part of Mal's heart, so he crouches lower, hoping to appear less threatening to the childling but this only serves to make the little creature quake more.

"W-we were walking the perimeter when we spotted landstrider carcasses on the banks of the Black River." The guard gulps, looking to skekSil he flinches when the skeksis gives a deep nod as if to say, go on, go on.

"They seemed to head off into the forest, as if something was… was hunting them." Now the guard's eyes flicker to Mal's, and the gelfling tries to make himself look even smaller.

"I… I reported to Captain Savan. I was in her delegation that rode out to the Dark Wood but we were attacked."

Murmurs resound through the village.

"I couldn't see what was happening, I'd been thrown off my strider." Fat tears gather at the corners of the guard's eyes, his voice wavering as he struggles through his next words. "And when I crested the top of the ditch I…"

"He was there." The guard thrusts a finger in Mal's direction, voice ringing out for all to hear. "He was _eating_ her!"

_Lies!_ He wants to snarl but he knows this game, there is no outcome in which he wins.

The pitiful creature breaks down crying, unable to carry on with his recount he seems caught between trying to compose himself or allowing himself to collapse.

"All is well now, childing." skekSil comforts the gelfling, pulling the young guard away with a hand on his shoulder, but it lacks any actual tenderness as the Chamberlain levels Mal with a wicked sneer over his shoulder.

"Stone-in-the-Wood calls for justice, they call for your head, skekMal."

Shouts and jeers fill the air, demands from the Spriton to see the murderer's head on a pike, to see him strung up for his crime.

skekGra steps closer, plates clinking ominously but the Conqueror does not draw his sword, instead he offers his open talons. "Come back to the castle, so the Scientist may heal your mind and you will be absolved of your crimes."

This starts up a series of boos and distasteful cries but skekGra stands firm, open palm unwavering. "Be skeksis again, live as you were meant to. A Lord of the Crystal, not scrounging for food in the dirt like some podling slave."

Mal hisses, he knows how the Scientist heals, he knows the Conqueror's words are as empty as his hand so he bares his teeth and crouches low, threatening the skeksis with a nasty wordless screech.

"Then so be it." skekGra narrows his eyes, retracting his offer, he lays his palm against the hilt of his sword once more and turns away.

skekZok looks to the Conqueror, and upon seeing the other skeksis small nod he steps forward, pulling something from underneath his golden robes.

"Oh, how I've been anticipating this very moment." The Ritual Master licks his lips, bright blue eyes blazing with excitement as he lofts the thing in his hands higher as if to show everyone gathered.

It is a collar, a cruel contraption with a ring of hooked crystal spines facing inward and skexish carved into its iron surface, curving beautiful letters that Mal cannot read.

Panicked, Mal shuffles away, breath coming faster as realization dawns.

The Spriton gelfling become blood hungry, nearly as ravenous for pain as the Ritual Master himself, they crowd closer, the guard having to hold them back.

Sylen struggles to make them see reason, tossing curses at her clan, shaming them for their cruelty but they ignore her, pushing past the old gelfling.

Claws grip his shoulders from behind and he thrashes, but the Chamberlain's grip is strong, much stronger than his weakened state and he can feel the stitches on his chest rip open, spilling hot blood under his clothes and against his skin.

"You live like gelfling, dress like gelfling, even smell like gelfling." skekSil whispers into his ear, hot breath ruffling his cheek feathers and Mal tries to twist away from the sensation. "And so Outcast must think he _is_ gelfling."

skekSil punctuates the last word with a harsh kick and he forces Mal down to his knees. "But you are not gelfling."

Mal kneels in the dirt, skekSil's wicked talons grabbing the bottom of his beak, forcing his head up and exposing his neck. He tries to force his jaws open, tries to bite the Chamberlain's fingers or even spit in his face, he tries to use his arms to rip out the skeksis heart but his claws only tear red robes and lace.

"No more shall you tarnish these lands and corrupt these naive creatures with your sordid wickedness." The Ritual Master latches the wicked collar around his neck.

Mal scrabbles at the contraption, claws scraping harshly against the metal, it only serves to drive the thin spikes further in, an iron vice puncturing his flesh with crystal teeth.

And then skekZok turns it, a sharp twist of his wrist that wrenches a shout from Mal's lips and the curved spikes hook into his muscle, scraping and stabbing wicked spines into his throat, through his trachea, and he can feel the blood like hot lava drip down into his lungs.

It makes him sputter and cough, choking on his own life force he falls forward the instant he's released. Red slips from his mouth, soiling his tongue and staining his teeth, he heaves, beak open and throat working desperately, but still he only drives the hooks deeper.

Wheezing he looks up at the Ritual Master, neck straining and pain igniting as the sadistic skeksis kneels down, getting far too close to him.

"Let this pain serve as a punishment and this collar suffice as a reminder." skekZok traces a talon along the iron, pushing in cruelly with a grin on his beak. "For every time you breath and for every time you speak, may you recall your atrocities."

It's a brand, like the one on his back but this time he cannot forget it so easily, for each breath is like swallowing glass.

Overwhelmed, he curves his talons under the iron, desperate to remove the damned thing, lest he be marked like chattel. Writhing and bucking he tosses his head, shaking and straining, his eyes rolling with pain and panic but still he chokes, and still he bleeds and the collar does not budge.

"Try and remove it and you'll soon find yourself without a jugular." skekGra's words ring out, the Conqueror looking on from further away.

They leave Mal panting harshly and swallowing, but his hands stray from the collar and he lets his head hang, slumping forward as the gathering starts to disperse, as if they've had their fill of violence.

Hands in his lap, Mal watches as red splashes against his dirty palms, the smattering of feathers there glittering and clumping with blood.

Disturbed, Mal watches as the red trades for clear, droplets falling like rain to dilute the small streams running across his skin. He blinks, trying to clear the sudden blur and clenches his jaw, feeling the spines shift against his trachea and his resolve cracks.

But he hardens it, with anger and vows of revenge, hatred and cold denial. Still, the tears fall, pathetic and disgusting.

Crouching before him, the Ritual Master brushes them away with a cruel thumb before lapping up the salt with genuine ecstasy.

"Pity." skekZok purrs, low and dark.

It makes Mal cringe, sickness stirring in his middle like a fire being stoked too aggressively.

"That's enough, Ritual Master." It is skekGra who orders the sadist to retreat, disappointed skekZok slinks away, and with almost a hesitance to his words the Conqueror continues. "Go on, say your goodbyes, gelfling."

Sylen steps forward, the guards parting like the sea as she walks, head held high but eyes wet and cheeks damp, her lips twitch and her fists clench at her sides.

He watches her, framed by the esoteric beauty of the suns, of the rolling fields and the markets of Sami Thicket.

Stopping in front of him, he can look her in the eyes now, and he sees too much there, to much pity too much fear and so he looks down and away.

Sylen reaches for the iron collar then, tracing the words, dragging through the sticky blood, a shaky hand flies up to her mouth.

Before he can form any words, Sylen pulls his face into her chest, resting her cheek atop his feathery head.

He's so much bigger than her, he could snap her in two, crush her under his thumb alone, as old and fragile as she is. But here, on his knees in the blood soaked dirt, she seems so much larger, her hands so much stronger than his own could ever be.

He feels as if he's been enveloped by Thra itself, all loving, and all powerful. It's _home_…and he's losing it all over again.

He can hear the sneers of the gelfling and skeksis alike, disgusted murmurs and scoffs that such a beast could be afforded comfort.

Even so he cannot stop himself from gripping the back of her tunic, talons fisting the fabric, as her blunt nails fist in his feathers, fingers grabbing at the little spines along his jaw until he's sure he will be pulled straight into her soul.

And too soon he's being pulled away, hoisted up by that infernal collar until he's forced to stand and follow along behind the Conqueror, scampering at his heels and whimpering like a _fizzgig_.

"_Wait_." Mal slurs, voice nearly unintelligible, a gurgling wet mess of noise. Reaching out for Sylen he does something he thought he'd never do again, he begs.

Whether the Conqueror hears a single word of it goes unknown, and Mal is dragged all the way to the edge of the village, the pleas coming faster and easier the more they spill from him.

He watches as Sylen tries to run for him, only to be stopped by Maudra Creyla, the younger gelfling wrapping her arms about the healer when she collapses.

Every time he's left the old gelfling, it's been by choice, even if it was for trine at a time, he always came back, always stumbled up to her door, bruised and bloodied and every time she patched him up.

And now he understands, luck did not bring him to her, just as luck did not keep him alive, and luck did not make his hunts so successful, it did not heal his wounds or calm his mind.

It wasfate, doomed from the beginning and strung along with false promises, it had brought the healer a son and it saw fit to take him away just the same.

Tired of Mal's pathetic words or just out of cruel necessity, skekGra throws him to the ground, watching seemingly unphased as Mal stumbles and squirms, trying to catch his footing.

Then the skeksis does something odd, looking over his shoulder, the Conqueror eyes skekSil and skekZok alike, the duo now a sufficient distance away.

And when his eyes fall back upon Mal, they're softer, so different then how they were not a few heartbeats before, Mal is certain the Conqueror has been possessed.

"Go to the Dousan." skekGra orders, his voice doesn't even sound like his own, so strange in its new lilt and lacking its dark edge. "I do not know if they'll grant you sanctuary or swift death but, go you must."

skekGra continues, tossing another look over his shoulder. "If you stay, a fate worse than death awaits you."

Mal tilts his head, shaking it slightly as if to realign the image before him. "What're you prattlin' on 'bout?"

The words make him grab for his throat, only to wince when it makes the burning worse.

skekGra moves forward, impatience to his step. "I speak of your continued survival. Of the survival of Thra."

Mal leaps back, frightened by the metallic sing of the Conqueror's blade being drawn.

"What's 'at got t' do with me?" He spits and coughs, words coming out garbled and wrong, but their intention is clear. Eyeing the sword in skekGra's hand he hunches, back arched and wary.

"No time for that now." skekGra reassures but it only leaves Mal more confused, mind scrambling for an explanation that won't come.

Squaring his shoulders, the Conqueror stands tall once more, he levels his blade at Mal's chest and his eyes turn icy, strange persona falling away as if it never existed.

"_Run_." skekGra's voice is grave and his sword does not waver. "Run to the wasteland, find the Dousan, and do not return. The fate of Thra depends on it."

And for the second time in his life, Mal runs without looking back.


	3. Bad Luck

"Remember, A'kyr..."

Bedan's voice floats over his head, swirling into the desert wind to join the never ending sky and stretch across the Crystal Sea. A'kyr swears he can see it, glittering like quartz above him, and so he tries to grab it, little hand reaching for the invisible notes.

"A Dousan only fires their bow when they must."

The _dromza_ beneath them sways with each step, wide hooves keeping it afloat atop the ever shifting sands. There's an expectant silence and A'kyr realizes he's meant to fill it, young mind too distracted by the shape of _swillya_ turning lazy circles in the distant updrafts.

"And a Dousan never misses." He whispers, lacking a certain confidence that comes with age but his father always hears him, no matter how soft he speaks.

"_And_?"

A'kyr doesn't have to turn his head to see his father's raised brow, he knows it's there just as he knows the sky and the sand.

Holding back an annoyed huff, A'kyr answers with old words he's said so many times. "And a Dousan never leaves a creature to suffer."

"Good, so you have been listening to me all these trine." His father gives a small chuckle and A'kyr leans back into the vibration, finding comfort against his father's chest.

Tilting his head back he stares up at the Sandmaster, studying a face and chin painted with a swirl of greens and blues, gold and silver cut sweeping lines like forks of lightning across his brows and his cheeks.

Sighing, A'kyr looks out to the desert, out across that glittering expanse. He wonders when he'll be able to ride out there, to find his story, to earn his place, to be free.

"You'll find your story yet." His father reassures, voice as calm and deep as ever."There's more to life than chasing danger."

"But isn't that what you do?" A'kyr challenges, tilting his head so he can meet his father's eyes.

Bedan laughs, ruffling his son's hair. "There's more to it than that, you'll understand someday."

By Thra, A'kyr couldn't stand those words. Swatting his father's hand away he mumbles the phrase mockingly under his breath and hunches his shoulders.

The _dromza_ stamps on, the Wellspring's greenery sprouting into view on the hazy horizon, great orange crags of rock rising up as its backdrop.

"Everything is a gift from Thra." His father's words sound far away now, echoing as if submerged in water yet they ring clear, rippling across his ear drums. "Your life, your eyes, your hands; all of it will return one day."

The Wellspring grows bigger and bigger with each step but, suddenly it's moving backwards, flying away from them, and A'kyr clutches the _dromza's_ saddle feeling the wind whip through his hair and miniscule crystal grains cut his cheeks.

"Without death, we cannot have life." His father continues, as if nothing has changed and A'kyr turns in his seat, panicked he tries to shake his father but the Sandmaster does not budge, frozen stiff and staring, his mouth continues to move. "It makes them both precious, beyond that of even the brightest jewel or the rarest metal. It is two halves of a circle, two parts of a song."

And the light slowly starts to leech from the world, as if being sucked down into the sand itself, darkness consuming everything with white hot flashes of violet lightning.

"And one day, when I'm gone…"

Even through the peeling roar of thunder and the scream of the wind, his father's last words drift to his ears.

"You will carry on that song…"

A'kyr wakes with a start, hands flailing and legs kicking as he tries to fend off the darkness that… isn't there.

Breathing harshly he looks out his bedside window, multicolored curtains tied to the sides, the sky is bright and blue, not even a wisp of fluffy white to be seen for miles.

Sighing, he scoots to the edge of his bed, the wicker of the circular frame creaking with the movement and the various furs and linens shift like a great rainbow sea, edges falling to brush the ground.

He doesn't bother to fold them back onto the bed, knowing he should lest he face his mother's wrath when she sees her handiwork dirtied by the ground. But he can't be bothered, not when his mind races with anxious thoughts, whirring like the rapid clicks of a_ moog_.

A'kyr grabs up his bow, feeling the weight of it in his hand, fingers curved around the pliant leather grip he traces his thumb against the runes of the horn and wood of the weapon.

Many hands over many trine overlap his own, as if he can physically feel their impressions, he knows that as long as he holds this bow, he is not alone.

But those are empty words now, from a mouth that no longer speaks and a face he finds it harder and harder to remember.

Now, it is just an old bow passed down to a son far too soon.

Picking up his quiver and pack, A'kyr moves to the ladder, he hesitates on the rungs, gazing up towards the roof and then swinging his head back down in contemplation.

Up there, all alone, he could sit and watch the world, one gelfling lost among the Wellspring's red cliffs and greenery, no one would ever notice.

But his mother, A'kyr forces his eyes down, guilt washing over him as his ears set back. It's such a weak feeling, soft and muffled as if it's been wrapped in far too many layers, but it's enough.

Sturdy rungs guide him down to the ground floor. Hopping down the last few feet, he surveys the humble kitchen, the fire has long since died and the air is still chilly, the walls resisting the early morning heat.

His mother's loom leans against the wall, a beautiful pattern of sweeping circles and lines within a large triangle is beginning to take place among the sapphire and gold warp threads.

She must still be asleep, no doubt tired from a long day spent preparing for the annual tithe.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looks towards his mother's chambers, curtains inlaid with _swillya_ keel bones conceal the entrance, and little _dromza_ hide charms drift to and fro in the draft of the room.

He decides to let her sleep, heading as quietly as he can towards the abode's entrance, he cringes with each soft crunch of his leather soles that grind red dirt and rock beneath them.

Nearly at the exit, he reaches for the leather flaps that separate the inside from the outside, almost to freedom, he can feel anticipation thrum through his veins, excitement and trepidation, he can't wait to go riding across the desert.

"Where are you racing off to, _nahnin_?" His mother's voice drifts to his ears, curling about him like the desert winds.

Turning to face her, he scoffs at the pet name but a smile still stretches his lips. "I'm not a childing anymore."

"I know." There's a touch of sadness in Ney'dyr's voice, and she steps closer, wrapping her robes tighter about herself. "I worry… You seem to be rushing off to Thra knows where, as of late."

A'kyr studies his mother's face, eyes tracing the purple swirls that mark her as an accomplished seamstress, the blue lines that kiss gold and speak of her past, and Bedan's silver lines dance alongside them, a telltale promise of reunification.

His own face bares a similar mark, much smaller and hardly as noticeable, just a glittering fracture across his brow.

Frowning, his eyes fall to the ground. He knows why she worries, with his older brother gone for unum at a time and A'kyr's tendency to go running off and find trouble, it's little wonder that she manages to stay sane at all.

"I'll be fine." He reassures, stepping close enough to grab up her hands in his own and look her in the eyes. "I always am."

Ney'dyr smiles, a soft little thing that never quite reaches her eyes before she pulls him in for a hug that leaves the air rushing from his lungs.

She lets him go with a certain reluctance and A'kyr steps back, trying his best to keep his back straight and his smile wide, but it's not just the smarting of his ribs that yearns for him to curl in on himself.

He moves to leave, feeling awkward and tense but his mother gives a sharp exclamation, motioning for him to wait as she grabs up a satchel from the kitchen.

It's beautifully embroidered, with the finest silks and jewels, it looks like it should hold something precious, but A'kyr knows it's simply spiced _swothel_ jerky.

Although, cooked and dried by his mother, it might as well be all the gold in Thra.

"For you and Kasha." She presses it into his hands before continuing, "and this time, be back _before_ the last sun sets."

A'kyr rolls his eyes, tucking the jerky away he hikes his pack further up his shoulder and lets his hand fumble awkwardly across his bow.

"A'kyr." His mother's exasperation is palpable. "This is serious, you can't miss the _samalzyn_, again."

A'kyr fights the urge to snort, instead he opts for chewing on his lip and giving a solemn nod. He doesn't want to have this conversation for the thousandth time and he fully intends to miss this evening's _samalzyn_, as well as the next one and however many it takes before they finally exile him from the Shaman's Circle.

Eating berries, drinking _goridiga_, and sitting about with his eyes closed under the _ozah staba_ wasn't what he wanted from his life.

It was a pointless endeavor, he never saw anything, never heard anything, except for the same terrifying images of swirling dark and ivory teeth, some beast racing about just out of his vision.

Finally walking over the threshold and out into the world, he escapes his mother's withering gaze, always equal parts love and disappointment in her gold eyes that leaves him itching for the loneliness of the wasteland.

Jogging to the steps that lead down the cliff face, he hops up onto the ledge and leaps.

Spreading his wings, the muscles strain and tug uncomfortably, so untrained for flight but still decent enough for clumsy gliding. He always finds it the best route to avoid the awkward pleasantries of the morning, not to mention the pitying looks that still plague him.

He makes a rough landing on the pathway far below, nearly dropping his bow and dislodging his quiver of arrows in the process. Straightening up with heat rising quickly to his cheeks, he brushes imaginary dirt from his clothes and looks down the winding path of the Wellspring.

"A'kyr." A voice calls, shaky and gruff with age but no less chipper.

Cringing, A'kyr hurriedly tucks his wings away, leaving no evidence of them before he turns to face the older gelfling.

"Rijem." He gives a polite bow, nearly thwacking himself in the head with his bow.

"Headed out to the wasteland, I see." The elder gelfling looks him up and down, adjusting the grip on his walking stick. "You'd best stay away from the Southern Xeric, there's been murmurs of some beast roving the sands there."

Rijem pauses, looking out across the Wellspring before he turns his gaze back to A'kyr. "Certainly dangerous for a young Dousan _lady_ like yourself."

A'kyr feels his heart seize up, not for fear of some beast or the possibility of meeting it, but for the elder's words that punch a hole in his gut.

Holding his tongue, he bites out a quick gratitude. "I'll keep an eye out."

The old gelfling simply gives a deep nod in reply before he's hobbling away with the clack, clack, clack of his walking stick.

Muttering darkly to himself, A'kyr continues on his way, hands glued to his bow and his pack as his feet kick at the stones in his way, he feels like a childing all over again.

His wings burn red hot against his shoulder blades, twin brands that make him hunch lower, his stomach roiling and lurching like a Sifa ship on the Silver Sea.

The pastures with their thin grass and succulents pass him by and still he treks on, heading for the entrance to the village.

Kicking a particularly large rock in his path, he watches as it ricochets off the uneven surface and flies into the midst of a herd of grazing swothel. The creatures startle, bleating and calling to each other as they run to the opposite end of the pasture, the gelfling working to shear and milk them shoot A'kyr dirty looks.

All he can offer is a sheepish smile but their whispers and sneers still reach his ears as he quickens his pace.

_Bad luck, that one is._

It was all they ever said, bad luck _this_ and bad luck _that_ and ill fated superstition on the eve of his birth was gospel from the mouth of the Maudra herself.

He makes it to the edge of the Wellspring, the vegetation dwindling to nothing and the shadows of the great tree's massive leaves disappear just the same, leaving the ground to bake and crack in the sun.

Breathing in, he savors the arid taste, whisking the moisture from his tongue and his nose, it's so sharp and clear unlike the air within the verdant oasis.

Standing safely where the rocks begin to slope down and disappear into the Crystal Sea, he gives a sharp whistle followed by a trill. He waits then, a hand over his eyes as his braids whip in the wind.

It takes a few heartbeats but a braying call answers him from across the glittering expanse. A large shape dashes across the sand, expertly staying atop the crystal ocean as she dodges great pillars of quartz and amethyst.

Soon enough her wide hooves thunder against the stone, and she tosses her head with another call, dorsal fins waving with the motion as the saddle and its adornments jangle with each step.

Racing to meet her, A'kyr wraps his hands about the _dromza's_ massive neck, having to stand tall on his tippy toes and still his arms barely encircle her.

The _dromza_ offers him affectionate nuzzles and snorts in return, pushing at him with the flat of her head and her dull tusks.

Checking her saddle with a hand down her flank, A'kyr tugs on the ropes and nets, making sure nothing is out of place before he hoists himself up. Sitting right where her shoulders meet her neck, he feels like he actually belongs and if he leans back he could feel her breath, great rushes of air that would make him rise and fall like the waves.

Patting her neck, he takes up the reigns. "How about a little trip to the Southern Xeric?"

Kasha tosses her head, hooves stamping briefly as she rolls her eyes to look back at him, little ears flicking up in interest. It's the best answer he'll get from her and so he offers a smile before he kicks his ankles against her thick hide, steering her towards the open desert.

After a good while spent galloping, A'kyr slows Kasha into a trot and reaches into his pack. Pulling out the _swothel_ jerky he whistles to get the _dromza's_ attention before he tosses a hunk of meat out in front of her.

Expertly, she snaps it out of the air, and A'kyr continues to throw her pieces as he munches on his own.

Once the satchel is empty he slumps back in the saddle, an arm slung over his eyes he thinks that even the _samalzyn_ would be more fruitful than this.

So far there's a whole lot of nothing, except for the occasional Crystal Skimmer racing by overhead or some _swillya_ squabbling over a half eaten carcass.

A sound breaking the harmony of the desert's acoustics has him rocketing up however, ears twitching to catch it.

"_Kee_, Kasha, _kee_." He urges the dromza to a full stop, hand reaching for his bow as his other seeks out an arrow.

Kasha's demeanor shifts, her dorsal plates vibrate and grunting growls leave her throat as her nostrils flare and she flashes her teeth.

Without prompting, she inches closer to a rocky outcrop, hooves clicking as they hit the solid surface and A'kyr leans forward, tempted to stand in the saddle.

There, laid out over the rocks is a large intact corpse, tattered cloth, feathers and skin barely discernible under the swarm of _swillya_, their sharp beaks picking at the remains of the dead.

Relaxing, A'kyr lets his shoulders fall and a quiet laugh escapes him. "Just some _swillya_, girl." He scratches his nails against her scales, seeking to calm the tense _dromza_. "No beast to be found besides the imagination of some old fool."

Except he's spoken too soon, the corpse gives an audible groan a pained cry that tugs at A'kyr's heart and has Kasha nearly rearing up in terror.

"Whoa, easy." He calls, feeling her flanks heave under him, he tugs the reigns pulling her attention away from the not-so-dead creature.

The _swillya_ abandon their meal in a frenzy of leathery wings and squawks, frightened by the sudden movement as the dying creature rolls onto its back, eyes closed and beak open to the sky.

A Dousan never leaves a creature to suffer.

He dismounts, words circling in his head as he recalls his father's lessons. With a hand on Kasha's snout he prompts the mount to stay back. She bumps her nose into his palm, warm breath huffing against his skin as her ears set back flat against her head.

Stepping away from her, she gives a panicked whine that tapers off into a low growl but obedient as she is, she does not follow.

Creeping forward, A'kyr draws a knife from his belt, bow left in the saddle, he approaches the fallen creature with a low stance and quick breaths but a determination to see it returned swiftly to Thra.

To hear its labored breath, its wheezing and its whimpers make his chest ache, like a fist rummaging through his insides.

Standing within a stone's throw of it, sudden realization has his fingers going slack, the knife tumbling a short distance through the air before he catches it and sheaths it gracelessly.

He races forward, falling to his knees next to the skeksis he hovers his hands over its body, eyes bouncing from injury to injury, trying to decide what needs addressing first.

Cursing himself for his ineptitude at the mystic arts he sits back on his haunches.

Thra, he can't even be sure it _is_ a skeksis, he'd only ever seen the Conqueror and that was from a considerable distance. The other Lords never come to the desert, or so the village claims, not that he'd know either way, he avoids the tithing at all costs.

Wiping a frustrated hand down his face, he pulls his knife out once more, thumbing the ivory handle as he holds it in his lap.

This skeksis, if it really is one, wears a collar, shackled and injured like some escaped monster but does that forfeit its right to mercy?

Raising the knife over its head, he hovers over its closed eye, poised to strike down into its softest meats and let blade tip meet brain, he whispers the rites for swift passage and tenses.

But it jumps up, eyes snapping open as it nearly impales itself on A'kyr's blade with a shout.

Falling over himself, A'kyr scrambles backwards, weapon flying from his hand. He swiftly scoops it up and sheathes it, backpedaling away from striking range as the incensed skeksis lashes out, writhing about on all fours.

Its eyes are glassy, pupils dull and grey, moving about frantically as if the beast can't see.

"Who's there?" It sniffs, getting to its feet like a marionette on strings. It grabs for that strange collar, other hands going for empty sheathes, and dried blood flakes off in tandem with fresh streams of red.

A'kyr puts his hands out, a useless placating gesture as he continues backwards, terrified of the harm an injured, sun frenzied creature of this size could do.

Kasha comes up behind him, a roar building in her throat but A'kyr signals for her to stand down.

"My name is A'kyr of the Dou-"

And A'kyr immediately realizes this is the wrong thing to say.

It growls in gelfling, murder dripping from its rough and garbled words. "_Archer_!"

It snarls, lunging and snapping its jaws in A'kyr's directions.

When its efforts prove unsuccessful it seems to vibrate, matted feathers rippling and mouth hanging open as it pants harshly. "I should'a known it was you… Infernal fuckin' Mystic, enough of your damn riddles…"

It shambles forward, slurring its words with heavy gasps. "Leave me… t' die already."

Panicked, A'kyr grabs his bow from Kasha's saddle, notching an arrow and drawing back the string, he aims at the advancing, shambling husk of a thing.

It takes three steps towards him, each more cumbersome then the last before it collapses onto its face, slumped into the rock face and wheezing.

He waits, a long silence punctuated only by raspy inhales and Kasha's dissatisfied snorts. Still, he stares down the arrow's length, face pressed to the fletch, and the beast does not move.

Lowering his bow, he makes a decision, then and there, and one he knows he will come to fiercely regret or be praised for in turn. It's a chance he has to take, if not simply to earn some semblance of respect but to also prove to his clan that he's more than a bad omen walking.

To save a Lord of the Crystal, he'd be a hero. To save some exiled beast, well it's not like his social standing could get much lower.

He grabs the creature's ankles, trying to drag its bulk back towards Kasha with little success, but thankfully the _dromza_ catches on and treads forward, steps still lighter than usual.

Kasha helps to scoop it up, using her tusks, she slides it over her flat head and then wriggling and shaking until the body is draped across her back, tucked behind her shoulder blades and against her first dorsal plate; right behind the saddle.

"Good girl." A'kyr praises her as he grabs the ropes, tossing them over Kasha's bulk and then ducking beneath her belly to lash them tight.

Checking to make sure the body won't move with a few tugs on its tail, A'kyr climbs into the saddle once more, careful to leave one hand on the reigns and one hand on the hilt of his knife.

He can't help glancing back during the entire ride, checking to make sure the creature's chest still rises and falls but also out of some innate curiosity.

It reminds him of something, its ivory teeth and feathers, the way it lets loose a raspy growl every once in awhile. It's so familiar, and not just because it's skeksis in appearance.

It's on the tip of his tongue and he can almost taste it, like trying to remember his first sip of _swothel_ milk, foggy around the edges yet the sensation is clear.

As he approaches the entrance to the Wellspring, it dawns on him slowly, just as the three brothers fall below the horizon, casting long shadows in their wake.

Guiding Kasha through the streets, he watches as the lamps are lit for the approaching evening.

Gelfling milling about while others prepare for the _samalzyn_, families heading to the great tree, childlings in tow as they point chubby fingers in A'kyr's direction before being quickly led away by glaring caregivers.

All head to the base of the _ozah staba_, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Shaman Circle's infinite wisdom; something he, as an apprentice of the great Dousan _samals_, never had to offer.

And still, he remembers his one and only vision, of a beast just out of his sight, ivory teeth and spreading purple, that Thra saw fit to deny him all but this singular premonition.

Be it warning or not, he was neck deep in it now, a beast at his back with the unknown ahead of him and by _yesmit_, he hopes beyond recognition that Maudra Dhinza is in a forgiving mood.


End file.
